Tipsy
by Sith Happens
Summary: Short, one-shot, slashy, twincesty drabble for St. Patrick's Day! Hope everyone likes... or hates. No indifference people, please!


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-1**A/N: Had the hankering for some slashy goodness, so I decided to write this up. Be forewarned, because this is twincest, though I'm sure you probably didn't open this if you didn't already know.**

**-Sithy**

**PS - If this story is a little hard to follow, chock that up to third-person limited line of thought and a sleepy author. Strange, I know, but I couldn't help it, it just kinda happened that way. **

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St. Patrick's Day always tasted like beer and cigarettes and whiskey. There were those who thought it traditional to gobble up some corned beef and cabbage, but the truly Irish knew there were only three things to consume on their special day, maybe a fourth if things played out right and the Irishman was truly lucky. Beer, cigarettes, whiskey, and sex. For Murphy MacManus, there was nothing better than the creamy taste of the Guinness or the sting of the Jamison or the curling of smoke from his mouth, except for maybe the smoke that slid like the snakes from Ireland right out of his brother's full, achingly soft lips, or the feel of Connor's hands on his skin.

They mostly took turns, ever since they had had their first drunken tryst as teenagers back home. And it only happened if they were drunk, as if that made it alright, made it less awkward or sinful, though both knew exactly what they were doing, despite the alcohol making them light-headed and dizzy. And St. Patrick's Day was always perfect for it, because even the good Lord Himself was drunk and wouldn't be watching. Even though they had convinced each other that they came into the world together, would leave together, and undoubtedly end up in the same place together, they still worried sometimes, counting out their sins on their rosaries like they had been taught too since they were little.

And though it was technically Murphy's turn, he didn't want to do the taking, at least not most of it. He wanted to be taken, he wanted Connor to press him onto the mattress and ply him with kisses and caresses and nibbles here and there. He wanted to have Connor's fingers and tongue trailing his skin. He wanted to be the one to bask in the affection because sometimes Connor's love meant more to him than God's and he would be willing to sacrifice his soul for it in those few moments of heat and passion they found in each other.

Glancing over the rim of his glass after he and his brother chugged their ICBs, Murphy could see the look in Connor's eyes. He could feel his brother's need as if it were his own, as though they were already pressed together, sharing each others' breath in the darkness. But how to slip away from the bar, with all the people watching and cheering them on and pushing more and more drinks on them in the spirit of the holiday. Murphy realized they'd have to resort to old tactics for this one and remember next year to think twice before flaunting his their drinking prowess to already half-pissed Americans.

"The fuck're ye starin' at," Connor slurred angrily at him, grimacing as he slammed his glass down. He was taking the first step in the little dance and it sent a shiver up Murphy's spine.

"Only what looks like me own ass-end," Murphy replied with a smirk, rousing hearty laughter from the crowd around them. "That's how I know I'm the older brother."

"Why, ye little fucker," Connor growled, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in close in a show of threatening him. But Murphy secretly reached his hand out and ran his fingers against Connor's side, making Connor have to hide his reaction behind a snarl.

He proceeded to drag Murphy out of the bar, a mixture of cheers and jeers and a few people following who wanted to see the two of them fight. Both brothers glared at them and told them it was a fight best left between brothers. Once the would-be audience dispersed, Connor swiftly pulled him down the alley and pressed him firmly against the brick wall before capturing Murphy's lips with his own.

Murphy began moaning into the kiss, combing his fingers through his brother's hair as Connor grabbed pressed their hips together firmly. And of course, Connor smelled and tasted of the beloved cigarettes, whiskey, and beer, making Murphy whine just a little in need. A few moments of breathless kissing later, Connor's lips slid down Murphy's neck, nibbling along the skin.

"Ye drunk yet, Murph," Connor whispered hotly against his throat, tilting Murphy's head back a little so he could taste more skin.

Murphy's hands clenched and unclenched against his brother's back. "Bit tipsy, I'll grant ye."

"Tipsy, eh," Connor gave a hoarse chuckle, burying his lips at the hollow of Murphy's throat. "Well, we've got more whiskey and cigarettes at 'ome. An' we can pick up some more Guinness on the way."

"Mmmm," Murphy closed his eyes a little, leaning forward to kiss Connor soundly on the lips. "Sounds like a right good St. Paddy's Day celebration to me."

It was just then that the good Lord decided to relieve Himself in His present drunken state by pissing rain down the backs of anyone who so happened to be standing outside. But the twins didn't care, and fuck all else, because they were going back home to finish out St. Patty's Day properly, with more whiskey, beer, cigarettes, and sex.

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